


The Lady Herself

by electricshoebox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6253636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So who exactly is the elusive lady spreading the joy of filth across Thedas? It must take a singular woman indeed to fill those silk shoes. And who knows her better than the dwarf that stole her heart? Come take afternoon tea in the parlor of the Randy Dowager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lady Herself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iambic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/gifts).



> For James, who requested a day in the life of the Randy Dowager. My thanks to Katie and June for their invaluable suggestions, knowledge, and editing. This was such an interesting challenge to my creativity, and I hope I've been able to bring her to life as well as I imagined her. I hope you enjoy it and that it meets your expectations. I threw in a few little bonus nods to some of the other prompts, as well. So here she is, meet the Lady herself, and the woman she loves.

Petra never grew tired of the sound of her own heels on marble. Even all these years later, when silk curtains and shining floors had long ago lost their novelty, the crisp echo always made her feel so important. Even carrying a stack of manuscripts nearly taller than she was (not that it was hard to be) containing nothing but absolute, unadulterated filth.

Learning to navigate the mansion’s sprawling halls, with all their side tables and decorative busts, had been a job all its own in her first days here. The dowager--honorable lady Duchess Nicole de Val Montaigne, if you please--delighted in all forms of art, but sculpture in particular, and took special pleasure in placing her marble statues in unexpected places (to put it generously). Petra could count on one hand the number of days that passed in that first month without her turning a corner to find herself with a handful of lovingly-sculpted, shockingly-lifelike marble ass, scattering papers all over the rug.

“Well, if I’m going to be catching you in compromising positions, you could at least have the decency to make them more interesting than groping the statuary,” the dowager had said once--the seventh collision, if anyone was counting. She had sat draped over the lounge just opposite the statue of Holy Andraste that Petra was accidentally fondling, and darted the barest bored glance up over the golden rim of her mask. “Honestly, my dear, I had higher hopes for your creativity.”

Catching the twitch of a smirk that followed may have been the moment Petra fell in love with her, come to think of it.

She smiled to herself now as she passed that same statue, giving it a little nudge in one perfect holy cheek with her elbow. It was, to be frank (and what Nicole would term “deliciously sacrilegious”), hardly worth a second glance now that Petra’s nights were decidedly more... full. And her days. And her mid-afternoons, as the whim struck. Or the hour after a particularly good story.

She had one such in her hands now, and a few other promising submissions besides. Two more sat on the dowager’s desk across the manor, with fresh ink and parchment ready beside them. She insisted the most interesting ones be brought to her immediately, no matter the interruption. The less-than-promising, or the downright disappointing, Petra and the other assistants handled on their own. It had once been a far more involved affair, depending on which house the package seal belonged to, if one was used at all, and how far the dowager’s knowledge of their influence could carry them, as well a great deal of other intricate rules of the Game. Wars and uprisings and holes ripped wide through the sky tended to lessen the impact of bad reviews, however.

Or, if you were the Duchess de Val Montaigne: “They have quite ruined all the fun.”

Petra supposed she hardly had any room to argue the point. After all, she owed just about everything she had to one of those bad reviews.

Turning from the wide hallway and out of reach of the sunlight streaming in through the arching windows led her to a pair of doors with a servant placed in front of them. Petra peeked around the edge of her paper stack to catch the girl straightening and turning forward, raising her chin to look as much as possible like her ear hadn’t just been pressed to the keyhole. The red startled into her cheeks said she was new to this, and had much to learn. Petra remembered the feeling.

“I’ve manuscripts for her ladyship,” she said, turning herself to catch the girl’s eye. She tried not to laugh as the poor thing seemed uncertain whether to bend herself to look down at Petra or to look ahead as though she hadn’t noticed the dwarf’s height. The plight was common, though Petra had long since been more than a plebeian trespassing on the dowager’s kindness, and for the most part, it was just amusing.

“Yes, my lady,” the servant said. “At once.”

As the servant turned to open the doors, Petra said, “If you press your ear straight up against the door, they won’t catch your movement through the keyhole.”

Well, wasn’t that a delightful shade of crimson.

“Y-yes, my lady,” she mumbled, and pushed the doors open.

“I find it absolutely necessary,” came the dowager’s lilting voice. She referred to her own accent in any of the three other languages she spoke (Common, at the moment) as “Orlesian spice,” and Petra was nearly annoyed with how charming she found that. “The nobility need something to occupy their time, and if it cannot be something useful, it should at least be something interesting.”

“You are spot on of course, my dear,” said her guest. Today’s visitor was First Enchanter Vivienne--the Madame de Fer, as they called her--the particular companion of the Duke de Ghislain.

There were not many Nicole allowed this far into the mansion. Its entertaining spaces, wide and opulent and filled to the brim with the largest and oldest pieces from Nicole’s statue collection, sat all the way on the other side of the estate from this comparatively small parlor. Not that this room was not also filled with artwork--let it never be said that Nicole de Val Montaigne left a wall undecorated--but the furniture was understated, softer, the statuary chosen more for love of the design than the impression it left. Nicole herself was dressed in a pink chiffon gown she never wore outside of the estate, and only very occasionally for guests; the mask that accompanied it was her most dressed-down. She had tied her gray-flecked hair up in simple braids. Petra had long ago given up trying to learn the language of Orlesian fashion fluently, but she knew enough to get by at parties and to decode the dowager’s opinion of the social engagement she was attending. Pink chiffon translated, roughly, to friendship. The genuine kind. And really, Petra saw why. She liked Vivienne. There was the same sort of pointed grace about her that Petra admired in Nicole. Calculated, and yes, likely weaponized, when the occasion called for it, but natural enough to be hard-learned and hard-earned, and that was something worth respecting.

“For my dear Frederic, Maker rest his soul, it was knots,” the dowager continued as the servant pulled the doors shut again. “All sorts of sailor’s knots. He kept them displayed in his study. He was very talented with them, you know.”

Nicole smirked, and spared a wink for Petra as she made her way to the couches. Vivienne shook her head, chuckling. “So I remember, bless him.”

“I do wonder if he is not terribly bored, singing hymns at the Maker’s side,” Nicole said.

Petra knew Frederic de Val Montaigne only in anecdotes and portraits, but it spoke well of him that every memory began with laughter. An affable man, clearly, who made his fortune on the sea. Nicole kept his collection of knots displayed in his study, which was rarely opened, these days. Frederic and Nicole had had the great fortune to be very good friends, something Petra learned to be an unpredictable lot when it came to the marriage of Orlesian nobility. She hadn’t understood, at first. Nicole spoke of her husband and his lover--the first mate on one of his merchant ships--as if it were as natural as anything else.

“Marriage?” she’d said once, setting down the quill in her hands. Petra couldn’t see her brow behind her mask, but everything about her tone conveyed the raised eyebrow. “Marriage is business, apple blossom. If you are very, very lucky, it may also be pleasure.”

They found enough pleasure in it to have two children, in any case, and that was sufficient for them both. It was Frederic who encouraged her into literary pursuits, as well, so Petra had heard. Nicole still carried flowers to his grave each year, in the spring, when the first lilies bloomed, always with a seashell tied round the stems.

“Well, regardless, you certainly have a talent for finding such unusual proficiencies,” Vivienne said.

“Mmm, yes dear, you see, _I_ collect interesting people,” said Nicole. “And their likenesses, of course.”

Vivienne chuckled. “Indeed. If I recall, your Ariane was quite the knotwork prodigy herself.”

“Ah, Ariane, what hands! And what a voice. My little songbird, always in blue!” Nicole laughed, then tipped her head closer to Vivienne’s ear. “I could certainly make that little bird sing.”

Vivienne waved her away, shaking her head even as she laughed. “Honestly, Nicole. Whatever happened to Ariane, anyway?”

“She sings in Lydes now, at the theater there,” said Nicole. She straightened in her seat, setting her teacup down delicately on its saucer as Petra lowered her stack of manuscripts to the table. “I had a letter from her only last month. She seems quite happy, though I wrote immediately to insist she return to Val Royeaux. She is wasted in the country!”

“Certainly,” Vivienne said. Her gaze turned then to Petra. A smile, pure amusement, spread beneath the glinting silver of her mask. “But at least she has not left you wanting for entertainment. Or company.”

“No indeed,” Nicole said. Without turning, she stretched out her hand.

To have the attention of two such ladies would have made Petra blush a few years ago. Put seven Carta blades to her throat? Good luck finding the barest hint of a flinch. Only spare her the scrutiny of Orlesian high society. But a few years of being the dwarven curiosity at the dowager’s heels had grown her a sturdier spine, in time, even if she would never manage to learn every intricacy of the Grand Game. She took the dowager’s proffered hand and curtsied to them both before brushing a kiss to Nicole’s lace-gloved knuckles.

“My ladies,” she said with a smile.

No, she would never master the Game, but she had learned, in time, more than a few of the rules. Especially concerning how one was to approach the social jungle of Orlais when one was, by definition, a wild card on the board, but held firmly in the hand of one of its most powerful players. The dowager’s smiles here spoke allowance, and her offered hand, safety. Here they might be known, without fear of retribution for the indiscretion.

Not that their relationship was either unusual or, strictly speaking, a very well-kept secret. There were many like this. It was knowing how they might be used that was the trick, and how carefully to present or hide damning evidence of their existence. There was a powerful and sometimes crucial difference between suspicion and certainty. Not that it mattered nearly so much now as it once had, in years past. The Duchess de Val Montaigne had reached the age of solid influence, and her place in the Game was just as solid, with little chance now of toppling it. Above all, she had the distinct advantage of her secrets being more valuable as secrets. The fact of the matter was that more than half of Orlais had copies of the Randy Dowager hidden in desk drawers, under mattresses, and behind pillows. Revealing her secrets only lost them some of their most reliable and illicit entertainment.

Either way, Nicole was telling her in the press of her hand and the bend of her smile that Vivienne was not a threat, and that they might be as casual as they like. A rare treat. Petra had known these gestures as warnings, too, when the curve of Nicole’s lips became the sharp suggestion of a dagger blade, when her grip turned hard and fleeting. Ah, Orlais.

“You know, you’ve told me all the stories of paramours past, Nicole, but you have never told me how you met the Lady Cadash,” Vivienne said. This time, Petra did feel her cheeks heat. Even the dark tinge of her skin wouldn’t hide everything.

“Oh, it’s hardly worth telling,” she started, hopefully, at the same time Nicole said, “I haven’t? Oh, but it’s the best story!”

Vivienne smiled. “I’m all ears, my dear.”

“I cannot believe I’ve never told you this story,” Nicole said, with entirely too much delight. “We met the night she tried to kill me.”

Petra sighed.

*        *        *

It was her first foray into the wild world of assassins-for-hire. Thankfully, it would also be her last.

She saw little other choice. Her career opportunities had dried up when her family ran afoul of the Carta, thanks to her rat bastard of a brother, Niko, and a clumsy bid to double his earnings by selling out his boss. It backfired, predictably. Then suddenly Petra Cadash, the up-and-coming Carta spy, was Petra Cadash, the unemployed surface dwarf stranded in Val Royeaux with only enough coin for a few nights in a back alley inn. The innkeeper slipped her a couple bowls of porridge out of pity, at least, but she figured that was only because she was desperate, nice to look at, and not an elf. She knew how these things worked.

Her salvation came in the shape of a poorly-disguised noble stumbling up to the bar, where the innkeeper was sliding her bowl to her. His Common was heavily accented, and his cloak was peeking open far enough to show the brightly-colored silk beneath it. She was honestly surprised he'd thought to take off his mask before entering.

“Tell me where I can find swords-for-hire,” he whispered, leaning over the bar stool next to Petra.

The barkeeper, a heavy-set human with a Fereldan look to him, folded his arms over the rounded gut straining his belt. “Mercenaries? There’s a few--”

“Not just anyone,” the man hissed. He glanced around, and Petra dropped her eyes quickly back to her bowl. The man strained further forward over the bar. “I need someone… _taken care of_.”

Well. Petra knew easy money when she saw it. The skillset of a spy and that of an assassin could hardly be so different. Subtlety and discretion she could do. She knew her way around a dagger. How hard could it be?

That was how she found herself climbing over an ornate stone balcony four days later in the dead of an unfortunately moonlit night. Of course it had to be a Duchess.

The walls hadn’t seemed quite _that_ tall from the tree she’d perched in to watch the house for the last few days. There was a spot low in her back already throbbing, and her arms ached from the climb. Really, it was sheer luck she hadn’t swung herself over the railing and straight into a waiting chair, with the way the night was going. Moving silently posed no challenge, but accounting for the movement of her shadow was a different beast entirely. She waited, pressed up against that cold white stone with one hand shoved over her mouth to muffle her breathing, for minutes she couldn’t count. She dared not move until she was sure no one had seen her. At least the window was left ajar.

On purpose, as it turned out, which in retrospect really shouldn’t have been half so surprising. She had the space of three breaths to notice, once she slipped inside, that the bed was empty. Then there was a blade at her throat.

Well, shit.

“Drop your weapons.”

Panic shot fast and sudden to her limbs and lodged itself in her throat. She took one harsh breath in to push it down. _Think, Petra._ The body behind her was warm at the back of her neck. Tall, then. That worked.

She heaved herself backward as hard as she could. She heard a grunt, and the knife wavered to the side long enough for Petra to duck beneath it and raise her own daggers again. They came crashing up against steel--a second knife, flung up just in time. And across the blades, the eyes of a woman glinting in the moonlight, a smirk spreading across her lips.

“Not tonight, dumpling.”

She pushed forward, but Petra kept her footing even as the force knocked her backward. Their daggers clashed, blow for blow, a dance in the dark that drove Petra slowly further and further back across the room. Metal to metal to metal, in and out of the light, until she ducked one last blow and leaned back on her hand to swing her leg out and trip her mark. But the woman anticipated her and leapt up, swinging around just in time to knock Petra off balance and onto the floor.

Everything stopped. They panted into the curtain shadows that stretched between them.

“With all due respect,” Petra’s opponent breathed, “or as much respect as one can possibly offer their would-be assassin, you are very bad at this.”

Petra started to scramble back to her feet, but that spot on her back twinged. She went limp, falling back on her elbows in surprise. Wonderful.

“Yeah,” she said, after a moment, because what else was there to say? “I know.”

“You have left me the door,” the woman continued. Petra saw a dagger glint, and assumed the woman was gesturing. “And never thought to silence me.”

“Well I wasn’t exactly expecting you to be awake,” Petra said.

“You’ve been following me since yesterday,” she said. “Did you really think I would lie there and wait?”

Petra leaned her head back, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “Of course you saw me. Shit.”

“You are not an assassin.”

It wasn’t a question, but Petra answered anyway. “Not before a few days ago.”

A laugh in the dark, strangely pleasant. “Not at all, my dear.”

Petra slowly pushed herself to her feet, her back protesting every shift. Even now, the woman kept her stance, daggers high, knees bent. The curtains swayed with a comically light breeze as they stared at one another. At last, Petra sighed and sheathed her blades.

“Who sent you?” the woman asked.

“He wouldn’t give me his name,” Petra said. What was the point in lying? “No mask.”

“Naturally.”

“Wore a bunch of green velvet. Said that you’d wronged him mortally.”

The laughter was loud, this time. “Tell me, did you happen to notice a particularly prominent mole on his right cheek?”

“I… don’t see any reason to tell you anything,” Petra said. She really ought to be running before the woman called the guard, but honestly, the whole situation was so bizarre that she almost wanted to stay just to see how it would end.

“Do you even know who I am?”

Petra made a face. “No, I just leapt through a random window and hoped it would be the right one. Listen, I’m clearly not any good at this but give me a little credit, Duchess de Val Montaigne.”

“I meant, Mademoiselle, do you know what I do? What had the Marquis that employed you so terribly angry with me?”

“Does it matter?” Petra said. She began to inch toward the window.

“I thought you might be interested to know that you’ve just attempted to kill me because I gave the good Marquis an unfavorable review in my quarterly. Concerning his secretly-published erotic novella, The Snake in the Grass, no less.”

Petra stopped mid-step. “Are you... are you absolutely serious?”

“On my late husband’s honor,” she said. Through the darkness, Petra could make out a smile. “Welcome to Orlais.”

What was left to do but lean against the bed and, helplessly, absurdly, begin to laugh?

*        *        *

“You cannot possibly be serious,” Vivienne said as Nicole dissolved into laughter at the memory, very nearly kicking her teacup with the toe of her silk shoe.

Petra pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, she is.”

“Of course that does sound exactly like something the Marquis would do,” Vivienne said. The feathers at the crown of her mask shifted as she folded her legs. “He never had any talent for subtlety. Oh, he must have been furious when he found out. And sent at least a dozen more.”

“Three,” Nicole said, once her laughter subsided. “I knew he would, naturally. That was why I asked Petra to stay.”

Vivienne turned again to where Petra perched next to the dowager. “Ah! So she hired you? Clever.”

Petra wouldn’t have agreed, at the time.

*        *        *

“I’m sorry,” she said, still trying decide whether to keep laughing or to run, certain this was some kind of bizarre trap. Someone might honestly convince her it was a bad dream, if dwarves had any way of dreaming. “Let me get this straight, after that entire... display, you want to _hire_ me? You’re… you’re joking.”

“Don’t insult me, my sense of humor is far superior to all of that,” the dowager said, waving a dismissive hand. She had, by this time, lit a lamp, and her daggers sat beside her on the edge of the bed. “What is there not to understand? You are not an assassin, but you are good with a blade. I have no desire to continue sleeping with one eye open. It’s terrible for the skin. And you, I would presume, have no desire to sleep in jail. If you would take advantage of my particularly merciful mood, then I expect something in return. And let me assure you, Mademoiselle, I can pay far more handsomely than that joke of a marquis.”

“But this is absurd,” Petra said. She’d said it three times. It was worth saying several more.

“You are not of Orlais.”

“You’re... you’re a book critic. A book critic for dirty books.”

“If you must put it so bluntly.”

“And all you did was say his dirty book was mediocre.”

“A blow to his pride, in his eyes. An insult. One that will not be suffered lightly. But to proclaim the wound openly also takes ownership of the book. The Marquis likely spent a good deal of his money, the money earned via his father’s family trade, to publish this book. And more money to keep it secret. So he must take his revenge in secret. He has no experience in this, but cannot turn to the more knowledgeable members of his family. So, _voila_ , you appear.”

“Wouldn’t it be more advantageous just to expose him?” Petra said, folding her arms where she leaned against the dainty blue wallpaper.

“Easier, perhaps, but not more advantageous,” the dowager said. “Because it would also expose me.”

“Well the Marquise obviously knows who you are, so it can’t be that big of a secret.”

“The secrecy is hardly the point, Mademoiselle,” the dowager said. “This is not a matter of shame for me. The revelation ruins the mystery of the whole thing. My quarterly would not sell as well, in that event, and the market for these stories would feel that blow. It is economic more than anything.”

Petra shook her head. “I’m never going to get used to this place. I thought the Carta was bad.”

“You do not know the Grand Game. Every move has consequences, whether or not you see them,” said the dowager. “Either way, what does it matter to you? Clearly you are in need of coin, and I am supplying it in exchange for your services. And I am supplying somewhere to stay, in the meantime. Is that not agreeable?”

“I just don’t understand why you’re trusting me,” Petra said. “I tried to kill you.”

“Please. Anyone in Orlais who does not have a friend that has tried to kill them is not living life to the fullest,” the dowager said. “If you are planning to try again, you are the one who will lose.”

“I could kill you and steal all the coin you have,” Petra said, more to point it out than out of any real desire to do it. Against her better judgment, she was beginning to like this woman. “Steal all of your fancy furniture.”

“I do not mean to be rude, but I hardly see how you could be able to carry it, my dear dwarf,” the dowager said. Her smile had teeth. “Especially as you keep rubbing that spot on your back. But all right. Say you kill me, take all of my money. Where are you planning to go with it? What will you do? Buy a house? With respect, who would sell to you? Would you run back to the Free Marches, if I am reading your accent right? What will that coin buy you?”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Petra said again, this time with an edge to it. Her jaw clenched.

“No, I do not,” the dowager said. “But I do know you will find it far more lucrative to keep me alive. And who knows. Perhaps you will enjoy yourself.”

For several minutes, Petra watched her in silence. Then she pushed away from the wall and crossed to the bed to stand before the dowager, uncomfortably close. The lady did not even lean back.

“Fine. You have yourself a deal.”

*        *        *

Nicole was, as Petra would learn was always the case, right about everything.

“And here I had always thought her simply your assistant,” Vivienne said. A smirk. “Well, perhaps not _simply_ , but nevertheless.”

“That is the beauty, no? She proved so effective, I thought perhaps an ‘assistant’ might be the perfect story to make her a covert bodyguard when I went out to parties. I could hire bards, of course, in the true tradition. But bards are expected, and I do not have any interest in doing the expected. I thought: should they discover her true purpose, they will know not to trifle with us. Or they will miscalculate their advantage, and we shall have a grand show indeed,” said Nicole. “That she proved to have particularly useful opinions on the quality of erotic literature proved an entirely unexpected, but not unwelcome bonus.”

“You always were an opportunist, my dear,” said Vivienne, taking a small sip of her tea, pinky extended.

Nicole’s laugh was sharp. “We survive as we must, do we not?”

“So we do, my dear,” Vivienne said, tipping her head.

Petra knew surprisingly little of Madame de Fer’s story, come to think of it. That she was a mage and a smart one was no secret, and her prowess in the Game, and in society at large, was obvious in her station alone. The favored mage of the empress, consulted by nobles across Orlais for her knowledge and skill, and allowed unprecedented freedom. Unprecedented, at least, compared to the Circle Petra was used to: the island prison on the edge of the sea, the rattled chains that had set the world to war. But Orlais was unlike anywhere else in Thedas in ways she was still discovering all these years later, so this was hardly surprising either. Beyond all that, however, Petra knew only that her accent labeled her a Free Marcher.

She knew little of Nicole’s story either, as it happened. She'd told Petra bits and pieces of it over the years, crumbs hard won over time. Her parents were Nevarran, and that was the most she ever said of them. Even Petra could not discern whether her silence on the matter meant she loved them too dearly or hated them too greatly. Or both. Whatever the reason, by twelve years of age, she'd been alone. What she had done to survive, she never said, only that it was the beginning of her “education by sword,” as she put it. What mattered was that, not long after, she'd saved the life of a noblewoman who took pity on her, and took her in as if she were her own daughter. This was “education by silk.” It was both, she would say, that kept her alive. It was both that made her strong enough to learn the Game.

It was a strange fact that the dowager’s life might make a far more interesting novel than many of the ones she reviewed. Then again, considering some, that was hardly as interesting a comparison as it should be. But she herself would say that these days, the most interesting thing about her was her work as the Randy Dowager. Yes, a Duchess of Orlais, advocate of the preservation of historical works and art by day, and by night, the foremost critic of the filthiest literature in Thedas.

“So, Petra, _ma cherie_ ,” she said, summoning Petra from her thoughts. “What lovely things have you brought to me today?”

“Several today, my lady,” she said, patting the stack of manuscripts. “And the others still in your office.”

“So many! A good day indeed,” Nicole said, smiling toward Vivienne. “Care for a preview, my dear?”

“No indeed,” Vivienne said, rising. “You’ll spoil me quite completely and I shall have nothing to look forward to.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re leaving already,” Nicole said, frowning. “At least stay for dinner.”

“Your company is a delight as always, my dear,” Vivienne said as Nicole and Petra rose. “But I’m afraid I’ve promised Comtesse Elodie that I would attend her party tonight.”

Nicole scoffed. “That busybody? What a terrible bore.”

“Believe me, darling, I know. But one must make sacrifices in the name of the greater good, if one is representing the Inquisition,” said Vivienne.

“They shall award a medal for your patience, surely,” Nicole said. “My regards, of course, to the family. And to the Inquisitor. The next time you must promise to bring this fascinating Qunari gentleman you keep mentioning--the Bull? I am simply desperate to meet him.”

“Oh, you would adore him. And he you, I’ve no doubt. It’s a promise, my dear,” Vivienne said. She stepped around the table and reached for Nicole’s elbows, kissing her cheeks.

“Don’t keep me waiting!” Nicole called after her. “They can’t lock you up in those mountains for another three months, I simply won’t allow it. Oh, and do remind your ambassador I am still awaiting her reply concerning the repair of the Crossing.”

“I will come to you the moment I am free,” Vivienne said. “And I will speak with Josephine at once. Farewell, darling!”

“ _Au revoir_!” Nicole said, as Petra curtsied. “Alina! More tea, if you please. We’ve work to do.”

The transformation in Nicole when there was work to be done was significant. The metaphor of masks in Orlais was a tired one, but in this case, Petra could think of none better. Her persona for entertaining, even among her truest friends, hid a surprising focus and a keen eye. Perhaps that was true of many Orlesians, and why the Game thrived, but Petra saw it most singularly in the Duchess. Forming an opinion on illicit literature might seem frivolous and simple to many. Nicole, however, considered herself a connoisseur, a truly discerning patron of the “finest filth.”

Petra once overheard a pair of ladies chatting near a table of hors d'oeuvres at one of the balls Nicole brought her to, murmuring to each other behind her fans. “How does one become the Randy Dowager, anyway?”

“I bet she’s not a dowager at all. I bet she’s not even nobility. It would be too obvious, no?”

“Who else has the time to spend reading through all of those books?”

“Well, I can’t say that I don’t.”

“Oh, hush!”

Nicole had laughed about it later. “It’s hiding in plain sight, you know. To tell them exactly what I am. No one likes to think it would be so obvious, and that’s the beauty.”

It began as a hobby, true enough, she had explained. Her life’s passion centered on arts of all forms, with particular concern for their collection and preservation. She made that her work. But her hobbies, well. Those were indulgences. And her collection of erotic literature was just about the only thing that might rival her collection of artwork.

She had always been a woman of shameless interest but particular taste, which made Frederic a lucky match for her in many ways. She read widely. More than just the illicit, though that of course held her attention the most. She offered her opinions to friends, at parties, even found her way into arguments over the merits and failings of this book and that story. And with the right people--and Nicole always knew the _right_ people--she offered her critical eye on the more erotic. Frederic encouraged her to do more with it.

So it began as a list, passed among friends. Then it became letters, sent out regularly when new books came out. Then they began asking for copies to pass to others. And so it grew.

War, in the end, was particularly good for business.

Nicole had remarked on it once as they bent together over her desk, sorting through manuscripts. It was one of the first times Nicole had let her actually assist, after several parties of playing at it.

“Of course one never wishes for such tragedies, but if they happen to befall at the most fortunate time? Well, let the Maker bless even His rowdier children now and again, hmm? People wish for distraction in these times. They wish to remember what gives them the most joy, or to escape their troubles. And of course, it helps that many are far from home, far from...prying eyes. It is easier, in this way, to indulge. So, my time is full, their time is full--among other things, ha!--and everyone is happy.”

She had laughed then.

Nicole settled back on the couch, fresh cup of tea in hand. “All right, my dear, tell me what we have.”

Petra plucked the first manuscript from the pile and passed it to Nicole. “This seemed the most promising.”

“ _The Admiral’s Ambition._ Oh Petra, my darling little rosebud, do I sense pirates?”

“Thought that would please you,” Petra said, smirking.

“Oh, it’s been ages since we’ve had a decent pirate story,” said Nicole, flipping the pages open. “But I shall not give it a single scarf until I’m certain there is a ripped bodice.”

“Not once, but three times,” said Petra. The dowager laughed with delight as Petra leaned forward. “And the admiral keeps her hat on. The _whole_ time. Though she does make creative use of the feather. Honestly, I’m rather surprised the Antivan merchantess has any bodices left to rip in the end.”

“Bosoms heaving? Skirts lifting? Let me see…” she glanced over the title page. “ _The wild hearts of the sea tamed by love?_. Ohh, my darling dwarven dewdrop, I’m half convinced you wrote it yourself!”

“If only,” said Petra. “But that’s not all we’ve got.”

She lifted the next from the pile. “I found this one intriguing. _Tourdion_. About a duchess and a chevalier captain meant to be enemies who cannot help but desire one another.”

“Oooh,” said Nicole. She set the first book aside and wiggled her fingers until Petra handed her the next. “Enemies, you say?”

“The chevalier captain is protecting the empress from a rumored assassin, who she does not know is, in fact, the scheming duchess that she cannot help but find attractive, even as she refuses to trust her…”

“Ah, I see where this is going,” the dowager smiled. “ _Someone_ took a little too much interest in that affair at the Winter Palace, hmm? Well, it is certainly bold to put this out when that is fresh on the Orlesian mind.” Nicole tapped the bundle of pages thoughtfully. “Still, I admire a little tenacity. And I certainly love a good intrigue. Very well. What else?”

“Bit of a change,” Petra said. “A soldier and a noblewoman trying to win each other’s hearts. But of course it’s not so simple. There’s one sending the other chocolates she’s allergic to, flowers sent to the wrong person, barging in on important meetings in a fit of passion… oh, and it all culminates in a rather hilarious honor duel.”

“It sounds lovely, but hardly in the realm of--”

“I neglected to mention the victory sex,” Petra said. “The noblewoman is, of course, _thoroughly_ grateful. And of course, there’s the surreptitious encounter behind the stable with the very creative use of the saddle stand. They’re interrupted by a flock of rather persistent crows, oddly enough, but up until then. Oh, and the scene where the soldier hides under the desk during a meeting.”

“Mmm,” the dowager smiled. “That brings back a few good memories, no?”

Petra grinned as she handed her the book, brushing her fingers along Nicole’s leg as she went. “It does.”

“Well, my lovely, this all looks promising,” Nicole said. “Let’s start immediately.”

“But there’s still--”

“You are all work and no play today, dumpling,” Nicole laughed, raising her eyebrows.

“You’re usually--”

She plucked up the pirate story from the pile and waved it back toward Petra. “How in the Maker’s name do you expect me to focus when you bring this to me, knowing _exactly_ what it will do to me?”

Petra sighed, but fondly, and flashed the Duchess a smile. “Well, how could I deny my lady anything?”

“That’s more like it,” said Nicole. She rose slowly to her feet, hooking a finger beneath Petra’s chin to raise it. “Come, my darling. If you are so intent on hard work, I have plenty for you to do. _This_ one,” she said, with a flick of her free hand at the manuscript in Petra’s lap, “I fancy hearing aloud. Without anyone else listening.”

She spared a glance for the door. Petra heard a muffled but distinct shriek, and then footsteps scuttling down the hall. The ladies shared a look, and then began to laugh.

“Ah, she will learn,” Nicole said. She dragged her finger slowly across Petra’s jaw, then offered her hand.

Fortunately, the Duchess’s room was not far.

Petra had always loved the paintings in this room more than any other in the mansion. Over the mantel: a stormy sea, with churning grays and deep blues, traces of green crashing onto the shore, and in the very corner, the distant rays of the sun breaking through the clouds. Over the bed: a woman, naked, skin nearly the bronze shade of Nicole’s, waves and waves of dark hair fanned out over waves of pink and gold silk, her head thrown back. It was the odd sort of combination that only fit Nicole.

“Where have I lost you, dearest?”

Nicole sat sprawled on the edge of the bed, reclining onto her elbows. The late afternoon sun was catching on all the strands of silver in her dark hair. Her mask lay next to her, already removed. Petra smiled and set the manuscript on a side table, walking to stand in front of her.

“Do you remember what you said the first time you took me to bed?” Petra asked as she toed off her heels and nudged them aside with her foot.

Nicole sat up. A smile spread over her lips, soft and slow. “What I said to seduce you? I recall I told you that you may guard my body better when you are on top of it.”

Petra chuckled, her hands coming to rest on the chiffon over Nicole’s knees. “That, yes. And you said, ‘I am not a lady given to shame or subtlety. I see what I want and I do what it takes to have it.’ And then you pulled the robe straight off your shoulders and threw it on the floor.”

Nicole’s smile only brightened. “Well, the message was clear, no? What made you think of this?”

Petra leaned forward, letting the slide of her hands carry the hem of Nicole’s dress up over her legs as their lips met. A quick, sweet kiss, and then another, before Petra pulled back to smile.

“Nothing, really, I’ve just been thinking all day of what an amazing lady you are,” she said. She nuzzled Nicole’s nose, winning a laugh.

“Go on,” Nicole said, a little breathless now.

“In words?” Petra said with a smirk. She let go of Nicole’s dress and let her hands slide down her thighs.

Nicole’s fingers curled into the short-cropped hair at Petra’s nape. “Mmm, you have such an eloquent tongue. You did agree to read to me.”

Petra sank back onto her knees. “There’s time enough for that.”

“You’re the one who insisted on working,” Nicole laughed, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, I’ll be working,” Petra said, pushing Nicole’s legs gently apart.

Nicole’s laughter rang through the room, then faded into a soft sigh. Petra never grew tired of that sound.

Even all these years later.


End file.
